


hiding underneath your skin

by tripcyclone



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Consent Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripcyclone/pseuds/tripcyclone
Summary: When Yuri gets dosed with sex pollen in the middle of a competition, he seeks help from someone who's experienced it before.





	hiding underneath your skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



At first Yuri thinks it’s the excitement of being in first place going into the free skate.  His breath gets short; his heart starts to race; his face warms. 

But no, that’s stupid.  Of _course_ he’s in first place: he holds the short program world record, after all, and the Rostelecom lineup this year is abysmal.  It’s all a bunch of infants and has-beens.  The only people who pose any threat to him at all are Seung-Gil Lee and Chris Giacometti, and they’re both way behind him in points.  Seung-Gil is over to his right, answering a reporter’s questions with terse, single-syllable words, and Chris is across the room, shamelessly eye-fucking some poor red-faced interviewer and answering her questions in that low, suggestive tone of his.  Anyone could’ve guessed this would be the top three when the Grand Prix assignments went out back in June.  Why would Yuri be excited about it? 

He tugs down the zipper of his jacket and fans himself with the lapels.  Shit, he feels warmer now than he did right after his program ended.  In front of him, a reporter and her cameraman are setting up for Yuri’s fifth interview of the night, and Yuri hears Lilia say _“Stand up straight”_ out of the corner of her mouth, even though she’s off to his side giving a quote to a newspaper and isn’t even looking at him.  He straightens his hunched shoulders.  After years under Lilia’s thumb, he’s usually better about his posture, but for some reason his muscles feel tense, like someone’s winding them tighter and tighter around his bones. 

The cameraman and the reporter get into place.  Yuri feels his shoulders hunch again, instinctively, like they’re bracing themselves against an invisible pressure.  _“Yuri_ ,” Lilia says, and she must have eyes in the back of her head, because she’s _still_ not looking at him.  He tries to straighten his shoulders again. 

Something’s wrong.  His muscles are too tight, and he’s too hot, and the lights in the room seem brighter than they were when he came in.  The reporter in front of him makes a little _go_ gesture to the cameraman, and deep inside Yuri a self-preservation instinct kicks in.  “Sorry,” Yuri says, just as she turns on her microphone.  “I need to use the bathroom.”

He ignores her look of surprise, ignores Lilia’s admonishing _“Yuri!”_ , and walks out of the room.  Fuck, is he coming down with something?  That morning at the hotel he’d passed someone with a hacking cough, and he’d pulled his shirt up over his nose just in case, but maybe it had been too late.  _Shit_.  The only way Yuri isn’t guaranteed first place is if he catches the fucking swine flu or something.  

He fans himself with his jacket lapels again, following the signs pointing to the locker room.  The lights in the hall are so bright that he’s squinting, and he doesn’t notice an arena staff member rounding the corner in front of him until they’ve almost collided with each other.  The man curses and flings his arms out, bracing his hands against Yuri’s shoulders.  “Careful!” he snaps.

Yuri’s breath hitches audibly in his chest.  On any other day he’d bite this guy’s fucking head off, but right now he can’t, because the feeling that just went through him is somehow...wrong.  Is somehow _incorrect_.  The man had given Yuri a hard jolt, hard enough to make him reel back a step, and it should’ve hurt.  But the sensation traveled through him as smoothly as a ripple through water: an exquisite shiver that started in his shoulders, slid down his spine, and dead-ended unmistakably in his dick. 

Oh. 

 _Fuck_.

The man releases him with a mutter and continues down the hall.  Panic explodes in Yuri’s head: he stumbles forward, his heart slamming in his chest.  He’s still in his short program costume, still in his dance belt with his dick trapped upright against his stomach, and now he can feel it: he’s getting _hard_. 

That’s not the fucking swine flu.  That’s—

The door to the locker room appears in front of him.  There are a handful of people inside—the pairs skaters are up next—but no one says anything to him as he runs straight into an empty dressing room.  It’s only a tiny cubicle with a curtain instead of a door, but at least the light is dimmer inside.  There’s a mirror on the wall and Yuri stares at himself: his eyes are thin rings of blue-green stretched around the enormous void of his pupils. 

 _Fuck._   How the fuck did this _happen?_   He didn’t touch any of the gifts his fans threw onto the ice, because they aren’t swab-testing them here the way they do at the bigger competitions.  Yakov had told him specifically not to touch anything, and Yuri had _listened_ to him, for once in his life.  Neither of them wanted a repeat of what happened to Chris at Worlds.  And now—

Yuri feels like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.  This can’t be happening to him.This season is supposed to be his _comeback_ , his return to glory, after his growth spurt last year wrecked his balance and kept him off every podium that mattered.  He already has a gold from Skate Canada—to make the Grand Prix Final, all he has to do is show up to the free skate tomorrow and do a halfway competent job.  Which he can’t do if he spends the next thirty-six hours in a hospital bed, drugged to the gills while his body clears out a fucking dose of _sex pollen._

On instinct he fumbles his phone out of his pocket and opens up his Contacts.  The text is blurry in front of his eyes.  He doesn’t know who to call: if he calls Yakov and Lilia, they’re going to send him straight to the hospital.  The ISU’s new policy is that any skater exposed to _hormone-altering agents_ is required to seek medical treatment, even though medical treatment doesn’t fucking _do_ anything.  “If only my over-enthusiastic fan had waited until I wasn’t surrounded by ISU officials,” Chris had told Victor after the incident at Worlds.  “I could’ve just gone back to my hotel room and gotten rid of it the old-fashioned way.”

Yuri’s stomach lurches a little.  _The old-fashioned way._ He’s watched sex pollen porn videos before—they’re all fake as hell, but the plot is always exactly the same: moaning, writhing victims getting fucked and fucked and _fucked_ until their fever breaks.  Christ, are those really his only two options?  Going to the hospital and losing his spot in the Grand Prix Final, or trying to find someone to fuck the fever out of him before the free skate tomorrow night?

Out in the locker room, Yuri hears raised voices, and he looks around the edge of the dressing room curtain.  Seung-Gil and Chris have arrived: Seung-Gil is ignoring everyone in favor of his phone, and Chris is flashing his insinuating smile around, greeting all the male pairs skaters by name.  Fuck, if they’re here, that means the interviews are over.  Yakov and Lilia are going to be wondering where the hell Yuri is.  Yuri shoves his phone back in his jacket pocket, and before he can think better of it, he sticks one red-sleeved arm through the gap in the curtain and waves it.  _“Chris,”_ he hisses. 

Chris looks his way.  So do some of the other skaters in the room— _shit._ Yuri hangs back in the shadow of the curtain.  “Yuri?” Chris asks, squinting. 

“Come _here,_ _”_ Yuri says.  “I need your help.”

“What, is your zipper stuck?”

Chris isn’t making any move to come over, so Yuri grits his teeth and says, “Yes.”

“Well, that’s a pick-up line if I ever heard one,” Chris says.  “Lucky for you, I respond _very_ well to lines.”

Yuri sees the other skaters go back to getting ready as Chris heads his way.  When Chris gets close enough, Yuri pulls back the curtain a little, and Chris halts in his tracks.  He stares at Yuri.  Yuri isn’t sure what he’s seeing—the flush on his face, the hunch of his shoulders, the light-swallowing blackness of his eyes—but Chris knows what he’s looking at.  The smile drops off his face like a stone.  

And for some reason that shifts Yuri’s agitation and panic into something closer to fear.  Chris had smiled unflaggingly through the media circus after his dosing at Worlds.  He talked about it like it was just another setback, as disappointing and unremarkable as a snapped lace or a sprained ankle.  Not _once_ had he looked like this: his expression stark and drained of levity, the insinuating line of his mouth collapsed flat. 

Yuri backs up a little, and Chris moves forward abruptly, coming inside the dressing room and closing the curtain behind him.  And—maybe it’s not the best idea.  The dressing room is cramped, and Chris fills up _so much_ of it, tall and broad and smelling strongly of sweat.  “Yuri,” Chris says, his deep voice carefully neutral.  “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know,” Yuri says.  His brain feels foggier than it did a second ago.  “I didn’t—touch anything, or get close to anyone in the audience, I just—”

His voice trails off.  He has to crane his neck to look Chris in the eye: Yuri grew five centimeters last year, and Chris _still_ towers over him like a skyscraper.  “Yuri, focus,” Chris says, even though Yuri _is_ focusing: on the way Chris’s lips are moving, on the way his long lashes dip over the arresting green of his eyes.  “When did your symptoms start?”

“Uh,” Yuri says.  His mouth feels strange; he wets his lips with his tongue.  “A couple minutes ago.  During the interviews.”

Chris pulls the curtain back a little.  “I need to find your coaches,” he says, looking out into the locker room. 

That clears up the fog momentarily.  “No!” Yuri says, and he lunges forward and grabs at Chris’s jacket, pulling him back.  “They can’t know.  They’ll send me to the hospi—”

He swallows the last syllable unexpectedly.  He can feel the muscular solidity of Chris’s chest against the backs of his fingers, and his brain is mistranslating the sensation again: he feels it in his _mouth,_ like a craving, like the way he dreams of chips and soda when his meal plan is nothing but vegetables and chicken breast.  “Not the hospital,” Yuri repeats.  “I can’t miss the free skate.  I _can_ _’t._ ” 

He presses his hands flat against Chris’s chest, and he tastes sweetness on the back of his tongue.  “Chris,” Yuri says, and he drags one hand down the front of Chris’s jacket, feels a trill of pleasure as he maps out the hard bumps of his abdominal muscles.  “You have to help me.”

Chris says, his voice strangely flat:  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” Yuri’s hands crawl up and tug on Chris’s jacket collar, trying to pull his face down to Yuri’s level. 

Chris takes Yuri by the wrists.  The warm pads of his fingers feel as smooth and cool as marble against Yuri’s skin.  “Because the rules say I need to get you to a doctor.  And if someone finds out I didn’t, we’d both be disqualified.”

“Fuck the _rules_ ,” Yuri says.  He tries to pull his hands away, so he can put them somewhere better, but Chris doesn’t let him go.  “Whoever gave this to me _knew_ it’d make me miss the free skate.  They’re not following the fucking _rules_.”

He tries to pull his hands away again, but Chris just holds them in place, immovable as fucking stone.  Fuck, he’s _strong_.  The expression on his face is tight, lines creasing his forehead, and Yuri feels a rush of hot annoyance.  In what universe does _Yuri_ have to be the one to convince _Christophe Giacometti_ to have sex with him? 

But then: “You’re right,” Chris says.  “If your symptoms just started a few minutes ago, whoever dosed you must’ve done it backstage.  It probably wasn’t a fan.  It was probably a—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and honestly Yuri was only half tracking it, the thrum of his pulse growing louder and louder in his ears.  Chris lets go of Yuri’s wrists, and this time when Yuri grabs his jacket collar he allows himself to be pulled down, until his unnaturally serious face is low enough for Yuri to push up on his toes and kiss. 

And it’s _amazing._   Yuri’s never felt a kiss in the tips of his fingers before, never felt a kiss like pins and needles in the bottom of his heels.  Chris’s parted lips are delicious, his tongue as sweet as sunlight in Yuri’s mouth, and Yuri presses himself closer, tilts his pelvis and tries to grind it against Chris’s thigh.  But Chris’s unfairly strong hands hold onto Yuri’s hips and keep them stuck in place.  Yuri hears himself whine into Chris’s mouth.  “You need to be quiet,” Chris says, pulling back, and Yuri _knows_ that, but it’s so much easier said than done.  “And you really shouldn’t be in your costume for this.” 

Chris lets go of Yuri’s hips, but before Yuri can throw himself forward, Chris’s hands move to his shoulders and pull off Yuri’s team jacket.  Yuri immediately likes where this is going.  “I was there once when Victor got mud on the legs of his costume,” Chris says, feeling behind Yuri’s back for his zipper.  “He was a smear on the pavement when Lilia was done with him.”

Oh, fuck.  The thought of Lilia finding _come stains_ on the crotch of Yuri’s costume is terrifying enough that it sharpens his mind a little more.  He manages to hold still as Chris unzips him and slowly rolls the costume down off Yuri’s shoulders, using a care that Yuri ought to appreciate and does _not_.  Yuri kicks off his shoes and steps out of the legs until he’s wearing nothing but his dance belt, and with an anticipatory grunt he shoves the dance belt down and gives his dick a firm jerk.   

He doesn’t feel anything.  Yuri’s dick is painfully hard and glistening at the tip with precome, and Yuri’s hand around it feels as uninteresting as if he were holding onto his ankle.  He looks at Chris, and for the first time since he came into the dressing room, Chris’s face regains a trace of its usual levity.  “Kind of a nasty surprise, isn’t it?” he says.  “They always say it doesn’t feel as good, but—”

“It doesn’t feel like _anything_ ,” Yuri says, almost outraged.  He gives it another jerk, and another, and then in frustration he lets go of his cock and moves forward again, trying to grind against the green fabric encasing Chris’s thigh.

Chris pushes him backwards, hands firm, until the wall of the dressing room is pressed up against Yuri’s back.  “I’d prefer it if you don’t come all over _my_ costume, either,” Chris says.  He reaches between Yuri’s legs and closes his hand around Yuri’s dick.

And Yuri feels it—everywhere.  He feels it in every cell of his body, feels it in the air _outside_ his body, bright and loud and sweet and satisfying.  He keens, his legs bowing underneath him, and Chris claps his hand over Yuri’s mouth.  “Yuri, _quiet_ ,” he says. 

Yuri whimpers behind Chris’s broad palm.  His voice doesn’t even feel like part of him anymore; trying to control it is like chasing after a fluttering kite tail.  “This isn’t going to work,” Chris says, his low voice tense.  “We need to do this somewhere else.” 

His hand on Yuri’s dick starts to move again, and this time he jerks him fast and hard, without hesitation.  Yuri gasps into the smothering clamp of Chris’s hand, instantly overwhelmed, his orgasm accelerating through him like a rocket launch.  He comes light-headed and moaning, sucking in air through his nose, his legs just barely keeping him upright. 

When the overwhelming feeling starts to diminish, it takes some of the fog in Yuri’s brain away with it.  He blinks at Chris, and Chris cautiously pulls his hand away from Yuri’s mouth.  “Th—thanks,” Yuri says, feeling slightly idiotic.  “I feel—better.”

“It won’t last,” Chris says, a little grim, and Yuri’s heart sinks in his chest.  “We need to get out of the rink.  Stay here for a second.”

He ducks out of the dressing room, one hand wet with Yuri’s come, and Yuri looks down.  His cock is still as rigidly hard as it was a minute ago.  “Shit,” he mutters, and drags his dance belt back up over it. 

Chris comes back with Yuri’s nylon gear bag and hands it to him.  “You should be all right if you get dressed and go straight to the lobby,” he says.  “I’m going to go ahead of you and get us a cab.  Don’t stop to talk to anyone if you can help it.  Just come straight outside.”  He touches Yuri’s chin, tilting his head up to meet Chris’s eyes.  “All right?”

Obedience has never been Yuri’s strong suit, but in that moment it feels good to know that someone else is in charge.  “Yeah,” Yuri says.  “All right.”

 

*

 

People do try to talk to Yuri as he sneaks out of the rink.  He’s wearing his most nondescript clothes—black sweatpants, black hoodie—and he even put on his sunglasses, indoors, like he used to make fun of Victor for doing.  But his red and white nylon gear bag is conspicuous over his shoulder, and people keep stopping him to offer their congratulations on his short program.  It’s a good thing he already has a reputation for being surly, or else the curt way he spits _“Thanks”_ and rushes away might seem suspicious.  But he knows he can’t linger.  The fog is already starting to descend on his brain again as he steps out into the lobby, and he’s pretty sure if a kind-looking stranger laid a hand on his arm, he’d follow them away without a second thought. 

Outside, there are plenty of people standing around and chatting, and he hears his name in several mouths—including a high-pitched _“Yurochka!”_ that means his fangirls are somewhere nearby.  Yuri grits his teeth and bulldozes his way to the curb, and when a hand clasps his arm he feels a surge of panic until he looks up and realizes it’s Chris. 

“Here,” Chris says, indicating an open cab door.  Yuri stares at him for moment: he looks so off-puttingly _normal_ , a half-smirk on his lips, his body language loose and flirty.  But then again, people are watching them.  Cell phone cameras are probably being pointed at them as they speak.  Yuri shoves his gear bag into the backseat and climbs in after it. 

Chris follows him in and shuts the door.  He says something to the driver, and it’s not until they’ve pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic that Yuri sees Chris’s facade drop, the sly amusement on his face cracking and dissolving like a rime of ice on water.  “Are you okay?” Chris asks him. 

“Yeah,” Yuri says.  It’s not quite true: Chris’s nearness is making his mind foggy again.  The only thing stopping him from crushing himself against Chris’s side is the dim knowledge that the driver can see them in his rearview mirror. 

“You should probably tell your coaches you left,” Chris says. 

Oh, shit.  Yakov and Lilia are going to murder him when this is all over.  Yuri digs out his phone and texts Yakov with clumsy fingers, telling him he left the rink and that Yakov’s in charge of bringing the rest of his stuff back to the hotel.  Yakov’ll probably have a rage stroke, but at least he won’t find it in any way out of character. 

Yuri looks over at Chris.  He’s staring straight ahead, his expression preoccupied, the line of his jaw tense.  Yuri scoots over a few centimeters, just a little bit closer to him, and Chris notices.  His expression changes: shifts unsettlingly back into its knowing half-smile, one eyebrow cocked insinuatingly.  “Tired?” Chris asks, his English clear and carrying.  “I don’t mind being your pillow.”

It takes a long moment for Yuri to realize he’s putting on a show for the driver, giving Yuri an excuse to touch him.  “Whatever,” Yuri mutters, and tries not to seem desperate as he shifts over, tucking himself against Chris’s side.  The relief he feels almost takes his breath away; his trembling muscles relax, buoyed up on a sea of temporary bliss.

They drive on in a silence that’s almost normal, until Chris shifts in his seat and says, quietly, “I wondered.  Is there someone else in Moscow that you’d rather have with you for this?”

It sends panic spiking through Yuri’s gut.  “You’re not going to—?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Chris says.  His thumb rubs circles against Yuri’s arm.  “I just meant that you’ve lived here before.  You might have someone you’d be more comfortable with.”

“I haven’t lived here since I was ten,” Yuri says.  “I didn’t exactly _get around_ back then.”

Chris nods, mildly.  “It’s just—better—if you do this with someone you like,” he says.  “I never got the impression you particularly liked me.”

Yuri doesn’t know what to say to that.  “Do you get the impression I particularly like anyone?”

Chris chuckles.  “Touché.”

Yuri cranes his neck and looks up at him.  He’s smiling, and it’s weird how Yuri can tell the difference between his fake smile and his real one, now.  They look almost exactly the same.   “I don’t think about you,” Yuri says. 

Chris casts him an amused look, and _that_ _’s_ real, too.  “Flattering,” he says dryly. 

“No, I mean—”  Fuck, why are they talking about this _now_ , when Yuri’s brain is made of fucking gelatin?  “You’re just... _Chris_.  When I think about you, I’m thinking about how I’m going to beat you.”

Chris tilts his head in acknowledgment.  “I mean,” Yuri says, “if someone asked me to pick a skater to get me through this, obviously I’d choose you.”

“Obviously?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says.  “I know you know what the fuck you’re doing.  I—”  He hesitates, feeling a little dumb.  “I trust you.”

Chris is quiet for a long moment.  “Thank you,” he says eventually.  “That’s nice to hear.”

 

*

 

When the cab pulls up to the curb in front of their hotel, Yuri fidgets as Chris counts out money to give to the driver.  “Almost there,” Chris says, his voice low.  “You’ve just got to make it to the hotel room.  Now’s the time to use that famous Lilia Baranovskaya self-control.”

Yuri grits his teeth and shoulders his gym bag.  Chris puts his hand on Yuri’s forearm as he leads him through the hotel lobby, and his touch melts through the fabric of Yuri’s sleeve and reaches down into his stomach, a feeling like clenching hunger.  Yuri keeps it together through the hotel lobby, through the start-stop ascent of the hotel elevator, through the finicky hotel door lock on Chris’s room, blinking red twice before the third swipe of his keycard gets a begrudging green. 

Then they’re inside Chris’s room, and Yuri is done with waiting, done with self-control, done with the fuzziness in his head and the aching hunger in his body.  He grips the front of Chris’s jacket and yanks him down, devouring his startled mouth, wrapping one leg around Chris’s thick, muscular thigh and grinding his cock against it.  “Fuck,” Chris gasps into his mouth.  “I’m still in my costume.  Just wait one more second, I—”

The word _wait_ doesn’t register in Yuri’s head anymore.  Chris’s thigh against his cock feels so good he could die.  His hips stutter forward, a moan ripping through him, and he feels Chris’s hands suddenly clutch hard at his sides.  Chris lifts him up off the floor and swings him around until the hotel door bangs against Yuri’s back.  In one swift movement Chris takes Yuri’s thin wrists in his hand, and he pulls them up over Yuri’s head, pinning them hard against the wood of the door.  “Hey!” Yuri says, twisting in his grip.  “What are you _doing_?”

“You’ve been very good the whole way here,” Chris says, panting.  “But I’m still not going to let you come all over my costume.”

He yanks at the drawstring of Yuri’s sweatpants with his free hand.  He shoves the black fabric down, drags Yuri’s dance belt with it, and grabs Yuri’s straining cock, jerking him as fast and hard as he had at the rink.  There’s no finesse to it, and like last time there’s hardly any buildup: Yuri’s vision immediately goes white at the edges, pleasure whipping through his body like a sheet cracked flat by a gust of wind.  His head jerks back and hits the door, and it doesn’t even _hurt_ , all the crossed wires in his head sparking and melting together. 

And then Yuri’s on the floor, flat on his ass and gulping air frantically.  He doesn’t remember Chris letting go of his wrists, doesn’t remember falling.  Chris is above him, saying something over and over, and it takes a long time for him to recognize that he’s just saying _“Yuri.”_ Finally Chris stops saying it and scoops Yuri up off the floor, lifts him into the air like it’s nothing and carries him over to the bed.  It sends a swoony feeling of vertigo through him.  Chris lays him down on the bedspread, pulls off his sweatpants and dance belt from where they’re bunched up around his ankles.  “Just a second,” Chris says, and disappears into the bathroom. 

Yuri can see his own chest heaving in the lower field of his vision.  He peers down further, sees the streaked and drying mess on his stomach.  Fuck, he came so hard he lost _time_. 

Chris comes back with a damp washcloth, and he sits down on the bed, wiping at Yuri’s stomach.  “Are you all right?” he asks.  “You hit your head on the door.”

“Yeah,” Yuri pants.  “It felt great.”

Chris’s lips twitch.  He picks up Yuri’s limp hand and presses the washcloth into it.  “I’m going to take this costume off while you’re still too tired to jump me,” he says. 

He gets up off the bed, and Yuri flops one arm behind his head and feels around for a pillow.  He finds one and tucks it under his head, just in time to get an eyeful of Chris standing in the middle of the room, unzipping his costume.  It’s done in iridescent shades of green and yellow, and the zipper is sewn in on a diagonal, so when Chris pulls it down the costume unpeels itself from his his chest, like he’s an exotic flower blooming.  It slowly reveals his broad shoulders, his tan and muscled chest, the deep _V_ of his abs disappearing into his dance belt.  “Oh shit,” Yuri says, involuntarily. 

Chris twists his head to look at him, and Yuri sees the smirk on the edge of his lips, his ordinary self resurfacing for a moment.  “Like what you see?” he says. 

“I don’t know,” Yuri says.  “Show me more of it.”

Chris turns his back to Yuri and peels the costume down over his ass.  Chris’s ass is the loving highlight of every single one of his programs and costume choices, but Yuri has to admit that seeing it under taut fabric doesn’t compare to seeing the real thing.  “This shouldn’t be anything new to you,” Chris says, rolling the fabric down his delectably thick thighs.  “I know you have pictures of me and Yuuri pole-dancing back in Sochi.”

“I was fourteen,” Yuri says.  “That was for blackmail.”

“Mm-hmm,” Chris says, and steps out of the shimmering cloth.  He carefully picks it up, smooths it out, and goes over to the closet so he can put it on a hanger.  He does it all so slowly it’s like he’s moving through molasses. 

Yuri chucks the washcloth at him.  “What are you _doing_ ,” he complains, and he fists his dick, even though it doesn’t feel like anything.  “Come _back._ ”

Chris brushes a piece of lint off the costume’s shoulder with infuriating deliberation.  “I always wondered if you’d be as bratty in bed as you were out of it,” Chris says.  “Turns out I was right.”

Yuri pauses.  “What, you’d thought about it before?”

Chris looks over at him, and for the first time Yuri realizes that he’s completely naked, that Chris Giacometti is seeing _all_ of him, narrow and pale and scrappy.  “Occasionally,” Chris says. 

And—Yuri doesn’t know what to think about that.   “Come _back,_ ” he repeats, taking refuge in brattiness, and Chris does, going to his knees on the bed and leaning over him.  He leans so close that Yuri’s breath catches in his throat, the promise of all that bare skin pressed up against him intoxicating.  Yuri sticks his thumb down the elastic waistband of Chris’s dance belt.  “Take that off, I want to see your dick.”

“Why?” Chris says, and the smile on his face is both real and _mean_.  “What did you want me to do with it?”

Yuri jams his other thumb down the waistband and pulls the cloth down.  Chris’s cock falls free, hard and leaking and—Yuri stares at it, his mouth going dry.  Proportionate?  It taps heavily against Yuri’s stomach, and Yuri reaches out and takes it in his hand.  He sees the way Chris’s jaw tightens, the way his teasing expression falls apart into something more raw. 

“I want you to put it in me,” Yuri says, his voice a little raspy.  “Right goddamn now.”

He rubs his thumb over the head, and Chris’s breath catches in his throat.  “I don’t think—impatience—is the best approach here,” Chris says. 

“Then you better put _something_ in me,” Yuri says, “before I lose my head and hop on.”

Chris tilts his head, and then he leans down and kisses Yuri, lips as slow and rich as honey.  “All right,” Chris says.  “Just give me a minute, I have to go find the lube.”

He lifts himself up off the bed and walks over to the bathroom.  He’s moving just slowly enough to put Yuri’s teeth on edge.  “Are you doing that on fucking purpose?” Yuri demands. 

“Maybe.”

Yuri lifts himself up on his elbows.  “I’m gonna fucking murder you,” he says.

Chris’s laugh echoes against the bathroom walls.  “Yes,” Chris says.  “That’s exactly what I always thought your pillow talk would be like.”

 

*

 

The sex pollen lingers on for another hour.  Yuri comes so many times he loses count: on the crook of Chris’s fingers in his ass, on the slide of Chris’s tongue down his shaft.  When Chris fits the head of his cock against Yuri’s ass, Yuri comes with the first slow push inside, the sweet, unbelievable stretch making him shudder.  “Tell me if it hurts,” Chris says, and Yuri flips him off, because nothing hurts: Chris fucks him and it’s like floating in salt water, buffeted by waves, every stroke pushing him closer and closer to shore.  He comes on Chris’s cock once, twice, three times—comes when Chris pins his wrists down on the bed, comes when Chris bites down on Yuri’s lower lip. 

And then—“Oh fuck,” Yuri says.  Because his tangled senses have suddenly straightened: he’s aware of the stickiness on his stomach, the cramp in his neck, the faint throb in his head from where he knocked it against the door earlier.  He reaches down and grabs his dick: it’s as limp as a wet dishrag between his legs. 

Chris pauses mid-thrust.  “Did it stop?” he asks. 

Yuri rubs his head.  “Yeah, I think so.” 

Chris exhales.  His face is lined with fatigue and exertion.  “All right,” he says.  “Let me—”

Yuri feels him start to pull out.  He digs his heels into the back of Chris’s thighs.  “Where the fuck are you going?” he says.  “We’re not done.”

Chris’s face contracts.  “You just said—”

“I just came eighty thousand times, and you haven’t come once,” Yuri says.  “You have to be close, right?”

Chris stares at him wordlessly for a long moment.  Then he nods, and Yuri lifts his arms and wraps them around Chris’s neck.  “So come on already,” he says.

Chris starts moving again, his thrusts slow.  Yuri makes a little noise with each inward stroke—he can feel it now, the aching soreness of overuse—but he can already see Chris’s expression going cloudy.  Chris buries his face in Yuri’s shoulder when he comes, mouth wet against Yuri’s skin, his weight on top of Yuri just a little too heavy for comfort.

Yuri doesn’t mention it.  For the first time in hours, he feels clear-headed, completely in control of his voice.  “Thanks,” he says.

He feels Chris’s laugh against his shoulder, weak but genuine. 

“Any time,” Chris says.   


End file.
